


anywhere i go there you are

by Argella



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post 8x06, arya stays in westeros, gendry POV, possibly ooc? idk but it's definitely show!gendrya with some book shoutouts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argella/pseuds/Argella
Summary: "I think I’ve been away from Westeros long enough for the time being. And…and I think I’ve been on my own for long enough too."or, how I tried to fix up the end of s8 but couldn't even manage to let Arya leave Westeros





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I was going to have gendry sail off with arya but that changed about half way through writing this, oops
> 
> Title is from "Fire and the Flood" by Vance Joy because I couldn't think of anything else. Also posted on tumblr (ladystvrk)

The smell of smoke still permeates the air of King’s Landing. _It’s not that unlike a forge_ , Gendry thinks _, only much stronger. But the sickly smell mixed with it isn’t metal._

The makeshift council that had resulted in Arya’s brother being chosen as king had happened just yesterday, but many men, soldiers and common folk alike, still lingered in the camps outside the walls of the city, trying to make sense of how Bran—King Bran—planned to restore a city of ashes and what part they were meant to play in that. Many Northmen were planning to depart back north with Lady Sansa within the next few days. The new king might be her brother, but with their newfound independence, Lady Stark’s men believed they had no obligation to clean up the mess that had been made. Not when they still had Winterfell and the rest of the North to clean up.

Gendry himself had traveled to King’s Landing after the news of the city’s destruction had reached Winterfell, along with the news that Jon and Tyrion Lannister were being held captive by the Queen’s forces. By the time Gendry found out from Ser Brienne and realized that, as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, he was expected to be at the upcoming council held in the capital, it seemed that the Starks had already learned the news and begun travel preparations. Whether they had learned from a raven or from King Bran himself was unclear to him.

Despite being given a vote in the council, Gendry still finds himself unsure of his own position in the newly formed Six Kingdoms. _Am I still a Lord if the Queen who legitimized me died before ruling? Do I even want to be?_ The night Queen Daenerys legitimized him had been playing in his head on a loop since it happened. A night full of drinks and laughter that had ended in disappointment and a pit of dread in his stomach. _If only I had found her before the Dragon Queen had spotted me,_ he thought, _maybe I would have been the one traveling to King’s Landing with her, not The Hound. It used to be me that Arya would come to with her plans._ But the truth of it was that he hadn’t known her or her plans in a long time. _We’ve both changed. We had to._

Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Arya appears within his eyesight, walking by tents set up in the camp Gendry was staying in, headed right for him. _I shouldn’t have just called her beautiful that night,_ he thinks, as he sees her come closer. _She is, but I should have said so much more than that. She’s beautiful, aye, but she’s also fierce and strong and…_

“I was told I would find you here,” she says, once she’s standing in front of him and the fire he’d been standing near. “You do know there are still rooms in the Red Keep that can be slept in? That’s where my siblings and all of the other lords and ladies have been staying.”

He shrugs. “I’m fine out here.” The truth of the matter is, he feels more comfortable out here, as bad as the smell might be. It’s where the men are, those who had fought beside him in Winterfell and those who had come to King’s Landing to fight again, and he’d much rather deal with the noise and smell than the ruins of the Red Keep. It may have been his father’s castle once, but Gendry had no desire to enter it if he didn’t have to.

She eyes him for a moment, considering what he said. “You know…,” she starts, “I really do believe you’ll be a great lord.”

The statement seems to come out of nowhere. He’d assumed perhaps she’d decided to say goodbye to him this time, before heading back to Winterfell with her sister. “And why’s that? Legitimized or not I’m still lowborn. I can’t read or write, and I don’t know the first thing about ruling over people. I’m not even sure the position is mine anymore what with the Dragon Queen being dead and all.”

She just scoffs before saying, “Don’t be stupid, of course the position is still yours. Do you really think Bran would take that from you? He knows we’re friends. And if anyone besides me can be confident in your ability to rule, it’d be the Three-Eyed Raven.” Despite the sense of familiarity that grips him at her calling him stupid, he can’t seem to muster up anything but an expression of wariness.

“Do you want to know how I know you’ll be a great lord Gendry?”

“I do believe I just asked you why, but yes m’lady,” he can’t help but bite out.

She rolls her eyes at that before looking straight into his, grey meeting blue, squaring up her shoulders.

“I know you’ll be a great lord because you care about the smallfolk. You’ve been one of them. You know what it’s like to go hungry, you know what it’s like to be treated poorly by highborn. You suffered during the War of the Five Kings just like every other common person did, along the Kingsroad and in the Riverlands. It doesn’t matter that you aren’t educated or who your parents were. I know that you have a good heart Gendry and you won’t let your people needlessly suffer. You’ll help them in any way you can, just as you helped me all of those years ago.” A light blush appears on her cheeks as Gendry stares at her, shocked. That had been much more than he’d been expecting.

“Thank you,” he chokes out. “That means a lot to me, coming from you.”

“Of course.” She clears her throat. “Any way, I just came by to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?” he asks.

Her eyes dart around, quickly taking in all of the people milling about around them. “Is there somewhere we can speak alone?” It’s only then that he realizes just how many people might have overheard their conversation. Now it’s his turn to blush.

“Yeah, my tent is this way.” He begins to lead them, only glancing back once to see that she’s following closely behind him. _She’s so quiet when she moves. More so than she was before._

When they enter, she begins taking in his meagre possessions. Now that they’re alone, it seems like she doesn’t want to begin.

“So, what do you think you need to apologize for,” he starts. “If it’s about that night, you don’t—”

“I do,” she interrupts. “And I don’t.”

His face scrunches up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment before beginning. “I mean that I went about it all wrong. We should have had a proper conversation after that night that we lay together.” Gendry can feel his face growing considerably warmer at the reminder, images of her on top of him, lips pressed to his spring to his mind, unbidden. “I did go into it assuming that I wouldn’t live to see the next day, that’s true, but I chose you because I trust you. You’re the only one I thought of doing it with and I think…some part of me, the part of me that’s still the old Arya, knew I wanted it to be with someone I love. Someone who I care about and who I know cares about me.”

_Love? Did she say someone she loves?_ “Arya I—”

She cuts him off again, plowing onward. “But when you asked me to be your lady I just…that same part of me remembered what it felt like before, when I was younger. How I always felt when people called me Lady Arya. How disappointed my—” she takes a stuttered breath, “How disappointed my mother was whenever I didn’t act like the perfect lady. Like my sister. And the thought of having to deal with others thinking the same thing again, trying to turn me into a proper lady wife, isn’t something I can deal with. Especially when any shortcomings they see will reflect poorly on you as Lord of the Stormlands.”

She stops, seeming to have finished, and Gendry feels that pit in his stomach again. Because he knew this. He knew all of this. How many times had she said she wasn’t a lady, not like her sister and mother, when they had been traveling all those years ago? _I need to fix this. Even if the result is the same, she has to know I didn’t expect that of her._

“Arya, when I said that, when I asked you to be the Lady of Storm’s End, I wasn’t thinking. I mean, I was, I did want you to be my wife,” _And still do,_ he thinks, “but I had no intentions of forcing you to be anything other than yourself. I love you just the way you are, and no amount of complaining from other lords, or even the bloody King himself, would convince me to try and change you. Despite my low birth you’ve always treated me as an equal, and you can be damn sure that I would treat you as an equal if you had said yes.”

His heart is beating rapidly after getting that all out, his eyes struggling to find hers as the light begins fading from his tent with the setting sun.

A smile tugs at Arya’s lips, her eyes softening, as she says, “Well, seeing as the King is my brother, I don’t think you’d be facing any opposition from him.” That brings a chuckle from him, as she glances toward the tent opening. “I told Sansa I’d sup with her; she’ll be expecting me soon.”

He tries not to let her see the slight disappointment in his eyes as he says, “Right, of course. I suppose this will probably be goodbye then. Have a safe journey back north.”

As her mouth begins to open, Gendry continues, “Just know that you’re always welcome at Storm’s End Arya. It’s going to take some time for me to adapt to things and I’m sure it’ll take the people awhile too but you’re still my best friend.”

“I wasn’t planning on going back North,” she says abruptly. Gendry staggers at that. “I was going to ask Ser Davos about acquiring a ship and a crew, sail around the world for a bit.”

Gendry’s face must show his confusion, as her hands come up in an almost placating gesture. “But I decided against it. I think I’ve been away from Westeros long enough for the time being. And…and I think I’ve been on my own for long enough too,” she says, her voice dropping in volume. The confident look that she’s worn since he saw her again in Winterfell is gone, and she looks almost like that little girl he met seven years ago. “I’ve spent enough time away from my family, trying to fill the hole that losing my parents and siblings left. Now that I have some of them back, why would I leave Westeros? I still want to travel, that’s true, and maybe one day I will sail back to Essos for a time, but I’ve still not seen much of Westeros have I? I’d like to go to Dorne and see if their sand steeds are as swift as they say. Ser Brienne told me she’s been to the Quiet Isle. I’ve been to Saltpans, but not there. I think I’d like to see it.” She looks lost in thought, eyes falling to the floor when a secret smile appears on her face. “I asked my father once if I could become the High Septon.”

Gendry chuckles. “Of course you did.”

She looks up then, a determined look in her eyes, _her steel grey eyes,_ like she’s decided something just then that he wasn’t privy to.

“I’d like to go to Storm’s End first though,” she says, tilting her chin up as she says it, calling him on his offer, as if he’d refuse.

A broad grin appears on Gendry’s face and he gives her a nod. “I think that can be arranged. I was planning on leaving King’s Landing soon. Thought I might ask your brother if Ser Davos might come along with me for a while, seeing as he knows the Stormlands.”

She sends him a smile of her own, closing the last few steps between them as she leans up to softly press her lips to his left cheek, leaving Gendry just a bit dumbfounded. “I need to go meet Sansa, before she harps on me for being late, but we can talk to Bran together?” she asks nervously. “I probably won’t be able to make it back until the morning, but I’ll meet you outside your tent.”

“Yes, that sounds perfect,” he manages to stutter out. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” She takes her leave then, walking out of the tent with a spring in her step as Gendry remains in the dying light. Despite what they’ve discussed, it’s not an acceptance to his proposal, but now he can be sure that she knows exactly how he feels and that he understands her feelings. Now he has a chance to learn her all over again; to add to his understanding of Arya that’d he’d once known so well.

As he begins to head out of his tent, seeking the warmth of the fire he’d been around earlier, he realizes that the grin still hasn’t left his face.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was really meant to be a one shot but oh well, here I am again.  
> Would things be this chill when Gendry gets to the Stormlands? Probably not, but I was just trying to figure out how show canon could actually work without saying "Surprise, Edric Storm exists!" So there's some book canon in this but nothing huge.

When Daenerys Targaryen legitimized him in Winterfell’s Great Hall, he had put little thought into just how difficult it might be to establish himself in a castle and land where nobody knew him.

While the Queen and all of the northerners present that night hadn’t a clue who occupied Storm’s End, the assumption that it would be near empty had been far from true. As Gendry, Arya, Davos, and all of the men King Bran had sent with them made their way south, Davos had explained that there would likely still be men who had been loyal to Stannis occupying the castle.

 _Great_ , he had thought, _I’m sure they’ll be just as glad to see one of King Robert’s bastards as Stannis was._

Their arrival had proven Davos correct. He had been recognized by the castellan, Ser Gilbert Farring, who allowed them and their party past the curtain wall.

“We received word of your imminent arrival from the new Stark king, Lord Baratheon,” Maester Jurne had said. After introducing himself and the seneschal of Storm’s End, a young man by the name of Elwood Meadows, Gendry’s party had been taken to rooms that had been prepared for them.

He only had a day to get used to his new lordly chambers and being addressed as Lord Baratheon before the tutoring began. He and Maester Jurne spent their early mornings after he broke his fast going over his letters and the accounts. As a blacksmith’s apprentice, reading and writing had never been of importance, and as a bastard in Flea Bottom, he wouldn’t have been able to learn if he’d wanted to. His afternoons were followed up either listening to problems the common folk brought forth, or meeting with various storm lords who had decided to pay a visit to their new liege lord. The latter was certainly worse than the former.

While Gendry felt uncomfortable sitting on the throne within the Round Hall, addressing the people, he at least had the maester and castellan by his side, willing to lean over and whisper him a bit of advice. When he had first begun entertaining petitioners, he’d asked Arya if she’d sit in with him, but she’d only given him a raised eyebrow and said, “I don’t want to give them the wrong idea,” whatever that had meant.

He had found that oftentimes his people entered the hall with looks of trepidation, worried they would find they had a cruel new lord, only to leave looking relieved. More often than not, those who had not yet seen him before would look upon him with wide eyes, whispers of “Renly” reaching Gendry’s ears as they left. So, while Arya had spent most of her afternoons exploring the tower and surrounding lands by horse, Gendry found himself slowly becoming more confident in his role as a lord. In front of the smallfolk at least.

For every man like Lord Selwyn Tarth, who Gendry found himself getting on with well as they chatted about his daughter, Ser Brienne, there was a man like Lord Wensington, who didn’t bother to hide his resentment that a by-blow of Robert Baratheon had been handed the Stormlands. He was visiting Storm’s End now, a month after Gendry’s arrival, and the snide comments he made about his own House’s origins had set Gendry’s teeth on edge. He’d left the hall as soon as they’d finished eating. He knew he’d be reprimanded by the maester about it later, but he needed to leave the stuffy feast hall, deciding to see where Arya was.

When the stormlords had begun calling, Arya had told him that it’d be better if she didn’t take her meals with him when they were around.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea that they see you with Lady Stark,” she had said.

“Thought you weren’t a lady?” He’d quipped, with a grin, as she let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not, stupid. But to them I am. And I’m sister to both the King in the South and the Queen in the North. I don’t want them getting the idea that either of them is trying to arrange some sort of marriage.”

That had sobered him quickly. After their discussion in King’s Landing, they hadn’t spoken of the proposal again. Not on the road to Storm’s End and certainly not within the castle’s walls. Gendry hadn’t forgotten her mentioning she loved him, not daring to bring it up yet when he had no clue as to when she’d be leaving, but they had certainly been softer toward each other, much to Davos’ confusion.

So, she had been flitting about, keeping out of sight of any visiting lords, only catching up with him at the end of the day when his lordly duties were at a close.

After asking around in the kitchens—a place he often found Arya hunkering down in when they had visitors—he was pointed to the godswood. Or what was left of it.

From what Gendry had heard, the godswood of Storm’s End had been put to the torch by the order of Stannis at the behest of the Red Woman. Gendry had never entered the place, but he knew Arya came here occasionally. When he entered, he could see the scorch marks left behind from years ago, a few trees and shrubs sprouting up, and Arya’s small form, sitting on a large white stump in the middle.

His anger at the pompous Lord Wensington faded as he saw her, knees pulled up to her chest. Her head lifted to look at him, showing no surprise at seeing him there. _Of course she’s not surprised_ , he thought, _her hearing’s better than a dog’s_.

“Done with Lord Wensington already?” She drawled.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “The ass kept going on about how he has the blood of King Durran flowing through him.” He paused, taking in the godswood once more. “I never saw the godswood in Winterfell. Is it like this only…less burned?” he asks.

She snorts before saying, “No. Even before this place was burned, I doubt it was anything like Winterfell’s. It’s much larger there and there are heated pools that my siblings and I used to swim in. Bran liked to climb the trees,” she trails off, her face pensive. He knows she likely hadn’t been back to the one in Winterfell after she’d killed the Night King, ending the ceaseless attack of the dead on her family’s home. Once that threat was gone, she’d soon rushed off to King’s Landing.

While Arya had become more hardened since they had parted ways with the Brotherhood, able to school her features in an instant, her face was gradually becoming more open to him. And he might not be able to read her as easily as he once could, but he likes to think he’s relearning quickly. That’s how he knows that, despite her yammering about the God of death, this tree, these gods, still mean something to her, if not just to serve as a reminder of her family.

“Well, that big stump is still here. It might not be in the best shape but all that matters is that there is one, right? I don’t know much about heart trees, but I’m sure it’ll grow back.”

Surprisingly, she shakes her head at that, looking around at the ruins of the godswood. “The gods use the heart tree to watch you, that’s true. But I don’t think they need it. You can still hear them, anywhere you are, if you only bother to listen.”

Gendry thought that over for a minute. He’d never been one for gods. The Seven had never done him any favors, and while he’d seen proof of the Red Woman and the Brotherhood’s fire god, that had brought him nothing but grief. It makes him uneasy, thinking about the old gods. _The gods of the North,_ he thought, _as cold and unyielding as the land they belong to, if I’ve heard it right._

Before he can ask her more about them, however, he sees Arya’s looking at him with a glint in her eye. “Have you not been to the smithy yet?”

“What?” he asks, confused by her abrupt change in subject.

“The smithy. Don’t tell me that now you’re a lord, you’re too good to spend time working at a forge?”

He rolls his eyes at her haughty tone. “No. It’s just that it’s not really my forge is it? Storm’s End has a smith. And I don’t think me greeting all the other stormlords after hammering at metal all day is going to make them like me.”

“Gendry,” she says, through a laugh, “you’re the Lord of Storm’s End. That entire castle is yours; you can go wherever you want. And as for the other lords, who gives a shit what they think? You’re their liege lord, if you want to spend time in the smithy you can.”

He thinks about what she’s said and the scandal it would cause for those who have a problem with his low birth. He knows the king would want him to be winning these lords over, showing them that Gendry could be trusted to rule over the Stormlands; that he wasn’t still a bastard smith’s apprentice, content with crafting weapons all day. But at the same time, he thinks about the sound of Lord Wensington’s nasally voice as he went on about his own royal lineage.

“Fuck it, let’s go.”

Arya gives him a grin, all sharp teeth, before grabbing his hand. She drags them out of the godswood and into the yard, quickly yanking him past a few guards and those who had come out of the feast hall. Whether she was dragging him past so they wouldn’t notice their lord in the company of a woman—and a princess at that—or if she genuinely was that excited to take him there, he wasn’t sure.

Once they’d entered the empty building, she’d dropped his hand, took a cursory look around, and turned to head back out.

“Arya, wait, where are you going?”

“To the kitchens.” _Am I missing something here?_ Noticing the confusion that must be on his face, she says, “I’ve befriended one of the girls in your kitchens, Ellyn. I told her I’d meet her there when the lords were done feasting and have my evening meal with her.” _Typical Arya, always making friends with anyone she meets, highborn or low._

“You’re just leaving me here all alone then?” he jests.

“Please, I’m doing you a favor. We both know it’ll help distract you from Lord Wensington pissing you off.”

 _I can think of a better way to get over that than hammering away in the forge all night._ But he wouldn’t dare suggest that, not when it seemed like they weren’t talking about it again. And he definitely wasn’t making the first move.

“Now then, may I have your leave m’lord?” she asks, left eyebrow raised.

He can’t help but chuckle. “Oh, piss off Arya.” He watches her twirl out the door, not unlike how she’d done back when they’d been reunited in Winterfell.

Turning back to study the forge, he sees the smith has kept the place in good shape; tongs and other tools are hung up and organized, with only a few things left out that he could tell were being worked on. He hadn’t been near a forge since he’d left Winterfell. While he had been legitimized after the war in the North, he’d remained sleeping on a simple cot tucked away in a back room of the smithy until he’d left for King’s Landing.

Warmth still lingers in the air; the smith must have been working not long ago. As he waits for the coals in the forge to heat up, he thinks about his past few weeks in Storm’s End. Davos understood the pressure Gendry feels about being thrust into a lordship, and had spent his time in Storm’s End giving him advice on how best to act around the other lords without coming off as a green boy; helping him learn a map of the Stormlands as he learned his letters; offering tidbits on how Stannis had run Dragonstone—not that Gendry was like to rule as Stannis had. But he knows that, as the realm’s Master of Ships, Davos needed to travel back to King’s Landing soon.

 _And Arya will likely leave soon after_. He tries not to feel too dejected at that. _At least she’ll be traveling Westeros, and not halfway across the word._ He knows she can take care of herself, he’s more than aware of that, but at least if someone tries to mess with her on the road now, they’ll have a king and queen to answer to.

As he sees the roaring heat that’s begun coming from the forge, an image of a weapon springs to mind, becoming clearer by the minute. Arya might leave soon, but he’ll have something for her when she returns.

\--

Gendry had managed to only be stopped twice on the way up the tower to his chambers. Grimy and covered in soot, it seemed he had found a way to get people to stop bothering him.

When he enters the room, he immediately sees a fire roaring in the corner and Arya in the seat at his desk, feet propped up dangerously close to a burning tallow candle.

“Arya, what—”

“The castellan and the maester can be trusted,” she interrupts. “Both seem very traditional, but they are also loyal to House Baratheon. They’ll respect you as a lord and won’t set you up to fail. Don’t trust the steward, at least not yet. He’s craven and a Fossoway--a fussy group--though Farring trusts him and he is close to you in age so perhaps he’ll try to befriend you. As for your servants—”

Now he’s caught on. “Arya,” he slowly begins, “I thought you went to the kitchens to see a friend.”

“I did. And my friends in the kitchen often forget that I’m highborn and they like to talk when they’re in their cups.” Her face takes on an innocent expression, as if it’s perfectly normal for her to go sneaking around the castle to eavesdrop. “I may have also questioned Ser Davos about some of this information. He agrees with me that you need to be careful. You’ve only been here a month and things in the Six Kingdoms are still tenuous. Should the other stormlords or, gods forbid, the people in your own castle, decide they don’t want you as their lord, I don’t know how equipped my brother is to help. You fought for the North so naturally they would feel for you, but with my sister in charge of her own independent kingdom, she’ll insist that they stay out of any business in the south--even if I asked for her help."

She swings her feet off the desk, getting up and walking a few feet to the closed door that he’s still hovering near.

“I’m not trying to scare you, Gendry, I just want you to be careful. You can do so much good as a lord, I know you can, but you need to stay in power to do it.”

He doesn’t think the situation warrants near as much concern as she’s showing, but he sees the almost pleading look on her face, and knows he’s going to give in.

“Alright, fine, you’re right. But if I’m going to be more careful than so are you. No more sneaking about, listening in on people.”

“Fine,” she relents, but he can only let out a sigh, knowing that it wouldn’t be that easy with her.

It’s just then, as they’re standing there, but a few feet apart, that he realizes they’re alone. Alone in his too-big lord’s chambers.

“Wait, did anyone see you come in here?” he questions.

She worries at her lip for a moment before saying, “A few people.”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone ‘getting the wrong idea’?”

Her face begins turning a bright red, eyes darting up over his shoulder to stare at the door. “Yes well, that was before.”

“Before what?” He doesn’t think he’s seen her this fidgety in the time that they’d been reunited, tugging on the bottom of her jerkin as she pointedly doesn’t look at him.

“Like I said, the people in the kitchens like to talk. Especially about how handsome his lordship is,” she mutters.

He lets out a startled laugh, feeling a smug grin work its way onto his face. _I know she could have found her way up here with no one seeing her. Hells, she could probably could have found her way into my chambers with me in them and I’d not notice 'til she revealed herself._ This gives him the confidence to say, “So, you were jealous and decided to throw out all of your plans just to see me?”

“No!” she shouts, just as he knew she would.

“Well m’lady,” he starts, knowing it will get her worked up, “then I must say it’s quite improper for you to be hanging around my chamber at this hour.”

“Oh, shut up Gendry.” She begins closing the few feet between them, _surely to hit me,_ only to yank his head down level with hers, pressing their lips together.

It’s quick, and he’s sure she partly did it to actually get him to shut up, but that doesn’t stop the large grin from overtaking his face.

She keeps their faces close, hand still clutching the back of his head, fingers fisting his hair, as she lets out a sigh that makes her seem far more disgruntled than the small smile on her lips says she is.

“I decided to listen to the advice I gave you earlier. I don’t want everyone in the bloody kingdoms thinking Sansa and Bran are pushing me into an arranged marriage or that you’re courting me or something. But with me hanging around here for the time being, for no discernible reason, people will start talking. So, who gives a shit? I don't plan on letting them run me off. Might as well see what sordid rumors they can come up with about the time the King’s sister and Lord Baratheon spend together. And I figure it would be good for them to see that their Storm Lord has the favor of the Starks.”

She starts to give him a cheeky grin before dropping it just as fast. “As long as you’re fine with that of course. I know you’re already worried about them seeing you as a bastard who got lucky, and I really don’t think it will hurt you to be seen with me but—”

“Arya,” he cut her off, “I’m more than fine with it. If anyone has any complaints, then they can come to me.” He’d be more than happy to return the favor and tell some of these pompous lords what he thinks of them. “Besides, you’ve got my back, haven’t you?”

She shoots him a toothy grin. “Always.” 

She lets go of his head then, her grin becoming more predatory, and instead grabs a hold of his arm, dragging him with her as she walks backwards to his bed. Once they reach it, it becomes a quick, messy tangle of mouths and limbs. For a brief second his eyes catch on hers, as grey and cloudy and fierce as he's heard the summer storms here will be, and he feel a sharp pain in his chest when he's hit with how much he wants it to always be like this, the two of them.  _It doesn't matter when she leaves,_  he thinks, so _long as she comes back._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I have to hate on Lord Wensington that hard? No, but he was the random stormlord from the books that was my stand-in for the inevitable "we don't want a bastard ruling us"  
> Also, it's apparently really difficult for a tree to come back after being burned? Oops, we'll just pretend the old gods willed it (mostly because i love the idea of the tree growing stronger as arya spends her time in SE)  
> I have about 2 more scenes I want to write for this AU (one of which deals with arya actually travelling) and will try to get them out soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: smut near the end of the chapter  
> I looked at a map of Westeros to try and figure out how long it would take to travel around Dorne and back to Storm's End, but I'm bad with distances and had no clue

Gendry’s just come back from a morning ride with Elwood when Maester Jurne finds him in the stables.

Arya had been right that the seneschal would try to befriend him. Upon finding out that Gendry had little riding experience, he had suggested they start taking short rides each morning for him to get some practice. While the man wasn’t exactly who he would have chosen for company each day, Gendry had agreed, if only to get out of the tower.

Before Arya had left for Dorne, she would come along, but she was far more experienced on horse than either of them and she couldn’t stop herself from riding ahead at breakneck speed. When they’d finally catch up to her, she’d be sitting on a rock with her feet swinging lazily in a stream, or with her back propped up against the trunk of a tree.

“My lord,” Jurne begins, as Gendry leads his horse into its stall, “you’ve had a raven, bearing the royal seal.”

That gets Gendry’s attention. In the eight moon turns he’s been at Storm’s End, he’s not received any letters directly from the King or his Hand. Ser Davos had left after two moon turns, heading first towards Cape Wrath, to see his wife, and then back to King’s Landing. Any news Gendry’s received from the Capital had come directly from him.

Gendry sends a nod his way, as he heads back to the drum tower and towards his chambers, knowing that the maester will follow.

When he has taken a seat at his desk, he motions for Jurne to continue. His reading and writing have greatly improved since his lessons began and he could read the letter himself easily enough, but his stomach is in a knot thinking about what the King could be writing him about.

The maester breaks the seal, eyes skimming over it for a minute before looking up, a wary expression marring his face. _Please don’t be about Arya,_ he thinks.

“Lord Bronn of Highgarden has been killed,” he states.

That he was not expecting. “Wasn’t he a friend of the Hand? And on the King’s council?” he asks, confusion washing over him. Gendry knew the man had been a sellsword and fought for the Lannisters, but not much else. _Had the lords of the Reach really turned on him that quickly?_

“It would seem that when Lord Bronn was returning to King’s Landing from Highgarden, he was set upon by outlaws on the Roseroad. Cousins of the late Queen Margaery have since taken up residence in the castle, with houses Redwyne and Fossoway, along with lesser houses of the Reach, supporting them.”

“Alright,” Gendry intones slowly. “Will the Tyrells be likely to trade with us then?” Despite the many mountainous areas in the Stormlands, Gendry had been told that there was plenty of fertile land. Relatively untouched by the War of the Five Kings and not victim to the cold weather that had traveled as far south as the Crownlands, crops had been plentiful in the region. Gendry had been advised by both Maester Jurne and Davos to supply the Reach with food since most of theirs had been taken by the Lannister army after the sack of Highgarden and then burned by Queen Daenerys during the Battle of the Goldroad. He had been hesitant at first, having seen firsthand in the Riverlands and the streets of King’s Landing what starvation looked like, and not wanting his people to suffer it. He had been told that they could sell food to the Reach and would not be left for wanting but he had also seen what it was like for the smallfolk when their lords came calling, demanding to be paid their due. He wanted his people fairly compensated for what they would be giving up.

He had said as much to the lords that had continued to plague him since he’d stepped foot in Storm’s End. Some had nodded along, agreeing that it was only fair, while others had thrown fits, believing any gold should go to them since the crops were grown on their lands. Those lords tended to depart from Storm’s End soon after, looks of acquiescence on their faces, adding to the rumors about Gendry’s Baratheon temper.

“The Tyrells are an ambitious house and, should relations between the Stormlands and the Reach continue after they begin to yield crops again, they will likely try to use that relationship to their advantage. For now, however, the region needs food and they are not likely to get it from anywhere else. While much of their gold was taken by the Lannisters during the sack of Highgarden, between the strongest houses of the Reach there will be plenty left for them to buy from the Stormlands. I do not see why they would refuse.”

“Good. Draft a letter to them at once with our terms. Any other news?”

“Yes. As you know, there has always been unrest in the Dornish Marches.” Gendry vaguely recalls the bloody history between the Marcher lords and the Dornish from a history book on the Stormlands that he had read, and what little Anguy had spoken of his home when he’d been on the road with the Brotherhood. “The King suggests that you travel to meet with the Marcher lords soon to quell tensions as best as you can. His sister, the Princess Arya, returns from Dorne. He believes her visit to Sunspear will positively impact Dornish relations with the crown and when the Princess arrives in Storm’s End, he would like her to advise you on how to establish relations with the Prince of Dorne without upsetting those in the Marches.”

“Arya’s coming back?” is the first thing out of his mouth when Maester Jurne is finished speaking.

The maester’s mouth forms a straight line, a look of irritation on his face as he realizes that the news of Dorne isn’t half as interesting to Gendry as the news of the King’s sister. “His Grace writes that Princess Arya makes for Storm’s End. He says to expect her return within three weeks.”

Gendry knows that Jurne had grown fond of Arya during her time at Storm’s End. She’d spent the months begging after him for old maps of Westeros and books that he kept in his cell, in addition to quizzing him on his knowledge of healing and shuffling through his stores. She’d even gotten him to stop using her title, though it seemed that he slipped back into using it the moment she was gone. But despite everyone in the castle growing used to her presence as she wandered around the tower and spent time with their lord in the forge, riding around the Stormlands, and even, they whispered, in his chambers, he knew they all worried what the King thought about the familiarity and closeness between Gendry and Arya. Not that that was like to stop them.

“Is that everything the King had to say?” he asks, a smile still on his face at the thought of Arya’s return. She’d gone south four moons past, and he’d missed her, though he would admit that it might have made his lordly lessons easier without her to serve as a distraction. He’d become more comfortable interacting with the other lords of the Stormlands and even grown more confident in his reading and writing.

Regardless, in the time that they had been reunited he’d grown accustomed to her presence. When he wasn’t listening to petitions or being tutored, they were out exploring the Stormlands together, sharing meals in the forge, and warming each other’s beds.

“Yes, my Lord,” Jurne responds. “Before I leave you,” he starts, able to tell that Gendry is ready to continue on with his day, “have you given thought on the letter you received from Lord Grandison?”

Gendry scratched at his chin for a moment. “Sorry, which one is Grandison again? Is he the old one or the fat one?”

Maester Jurne sighed. “Lord Grandison is quite old. He is also adamant that House Swann be punished in some way for Ser Balon Swann’s role in the Lannister reign.”

“Wasn’t he a member of the Kingsguard? He’s dead now, what would I punish his family for?” he asks.

“Yes, my Lord, he was appointed to the Kingsguard by King Joffrey. His brother, Ser Donnel, supported both of your uncles during the War of the Five Kings, before kneeling before king Joffrey after the Battle of the Blackwater. As you asked, why might Lord Grandison be intent on seeing House Swann punished?”

Maester Jurne liked to ask him questions such as these to test him; to see how much he was learning about the other stormlords and the games they played. He hated it, truly, preferring the maester to speak plainly, but he knew that he needed to be somewhat adept at it if he wanted to retain control over Storm’s End.

Gendry takes a look over at the map of the Stormlands spread out on his desk, finding Grandview and Stonehelm.

“Lord Grandison rules from Grandview. Grandview is just north of this river here,” he says, pointing. “The Slayne.” Davos had spoken of the journey he would have to Cape Wrath, and Gendry recalled a brief mention of the river. “The Slayne is a major river route in the Stormlands…” he trails off, following the river along the map. “And House Swann rules from Stonehelm, right at the mouth of the river. Lord Grandison might be hoping that I’ll punish House Swann by stripping them of their lands and…granting them to House Grandison?”

The maester sends him a small smile, and Gendry knows that he’s said what the maester had been thinking. “And, should this be the reasoning behind Lord Grandison’s letter, how might you respond to his request?” he asks.

“By telling him to fuck off,” Gendry scoffs. He laughs at the look of shock on Maester Jurne’s face as he continues, “I hardly think the Swann’s should have their home taken from them for that and I certainly don’t know Lord Grandison well enough to just hand it over to him. Is that all you wanted to speak about? I planned on spending the afternoon in front of the forge,” he finishes, rising from his seat.

The look on the maester’s face is one of pure resignation. “Yes, my Lord. Perhaps we will compose your reply to Lord Grandison together on the morrow.”

“Sure thing,” he replies, clapping the maester once on the shoulder as he strides out of the room.

As he passes through the yard, he’s greeted by members of his household with small smiles and waves. He sees a member of his guard, Tom, engaged in conversation with Arya’s friend from the kitchens, Ellyn.

When he enters the smithy the grizzled old smith, Ormund, greets him with a nod as he hammers away at a piece of steel.

Ormund had been one of the first men Gendry had actually let himself be comfortable around in Storm’s End. He was used to men like Ormund; ones who had spent their years in a hot smithy, who knew nothing but their work. He had learned that the man had been smithing in Storm’s End since the end of his father’s rebellion, taking over when the previous smith lost an arm during the siege. In return, Gendry had told him of his time in King’s Landing, working under Tobho Mott. They spoke of little else but their work, and Ormund hadn’t addressed him as Lord Baratheon since their first meeting. Gendry knew that if he wasn’t lord of the castle, Ormund likely wouldn’t let him near his forge but he was glad to have a refuge within Storm’s End all the same.

He heads over to the work bench Ormund has left clear for him and unwraps the piece of cloth sitting on it. He had hoped to have the dagger finished before Arya left for Dorne, but she often popped up in the forge when he was working, and he didn’t want her to see the piece before it was finished.

Gendry knows this is nothing compared to the Valyrian steel dagger she has--he didn’t use any magic spells, and the blade will certainly need sharpening—but he’s proud of the hilt he’d been working on.

After the day he’d found Arya in the godswood, he’d sketched an image of what he wanted it to look like. He’d seen some wildlings carrying bows and staffs made of weirwood when he’d been in Winterfell and figured the material would be durable enough. He’d asked Maester Jurne all he knew of weirwood, but that had been very little, so he’d gone back to the godswood to study what was left of Storm’s End’s heart tree, making sure to bring an axe with him.

 When he entered, however, he was shocked to see that what had been only a stump a few moons ago was now multiple sprouts coming up to his waist. He walked toward them and knelt for a minute, picking one out, before lifting his axe and thinking, _Old gods_ , _if you’re listening, please forgive me._

Carving the thick wood was difficult, and he’d wanted to add more ornamentation to it, but he figured that was beyond his skill level, so he’d settled for a plain weirwood hilt. _Three weeks should give me plenty of time,_ he thinks.

\--

The day Arya arrives in Storm’s End, Gendry experiences his first major storm. He’d experienced summer storms in King’s Landing before, but they were nothing like this. Maester Jurne says it’s odd, considering the Maesters of the Citadel haven’t yet announced the end of Winter, leaving them a few months at the very least before the first large storms hit. With most everyone confined to working inside the tower, he’d tried to spend time in his chambers reading, but all he can focus on is the choking humidity that’s found its way inside.

When it gets to be too much, he decides to make his way to the smithy. He knows he’ll have to make a mad dash from the tower to the door, but the rain might cool him off.

When he gets inside, he slams the door shut. He’d gotten just as soaked as he’d expected, but at least the cold sweat he had had been washed away. Looking around, he sees a few candles lit, but the smithy is relatively dark, Ormund nowhere to be found. He can hear the waves of Shipbreaker Bay slamming loudly against the curtain wall outside. _Thank the gods for that,_ he muses, _else there’d be no castle standing._

“They say it’s magic that protects the castle,” he hears a voice say to his left, as if in response to his thoughts. He turns, feet quickly positioning themselves into a defensive stance, until he’s sees it’s her. Arya.

“When the first Storm King married Elenei, the gods raged, and sent storms to destroy each keep he built,” she continues. “It wasn’t until he met Bran the Builder that he was finally able to build a castle strong enough to withstand the sea and wind. Storm’s End. Or so they say,” she finishes, a disbelieving smile tugging at her lips.

“I’ve heard the story,” is all he manages to choke out. He knew to expect her soon, but he hadn’t expected to find her right this moment, lurking in the shadows near the forge.

In an instant she’s crossing the distance of the smithy, his arms enveloping her when she reaches him.

“I missed you,” she breathes into his neck.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, lips pressing softly to the top of her head. He can tell she’s drier than he is, having been out of the rain for longer, but neither seem to care that pressed together like this, his clothes are soaking through hers.

Arya pulls her head back, a smile on her face as he leans down toward her, lips meeting hers without hesitation. _Gods I’ve missed this,_ he thinks, as he feels her teeth sink into his bottom lip, drawing a soft moan from him.

Her small hands begin ridding him of his wet tunic, her lips parting from his for only a second to lift it over his head before seeking them back out. His hands instinctively begin pulling at her jerkin, sliding it down each shoulder as he’s done dozens of times before while hers move to deftly undo the laces on both of their breeches.

As he moves to lift her up, she jumps, wrapping her legs around his waist and her fingers dig firmly into his shoulders. He sets her down on the worn wooden table in the center of the room, attaching his lips to her neck as she begins grinding into him where their bodies meet.

He pulls away a moment later, steadying her hips with his left hand before looking into her eyes. They’re as dark as the storm clouds outside the smithy, but no less alert than usual. She tugs his hand away with her own before hooking her fingers around the edge of her breeches and small clothes, shimmying them past her waist and legs, eyes locked on his. He takes that as a sign to tug down his own, and her right hand immediately reaches down between them to give him a few strokes.

“Arya,” he stutters out.

She sends him a playful smile, urging him closer, before lining him up with her cunt. He slides in slowly, feeling her warm heat around him and unable to hold back from uttering a solitary “Fuck.” Her laughter reaches his ears as he begins to move, quickly devolving into a series of soft, breathy moans.

He wraps his left arm around her right leg while he leans forward over the table that her back is now lying flat on, entering her at an angle he knows she likes.

She fists her left hand into his hair at the back of his head and pulls him flush against her in order to join their lips. He can feel that familiar tug in his lower stomach and moves his right hand between them, where their bodies are joined, trying to make sure she can enjoy this before it ends embarrassingly quick.

He slows his pace down, opting to go slow and deep until he feels her walls tightening around him. As he feels her muscles clenching, she lets out a long, drawn out “Gendry,” her hips still moving in small motions as he empties himself in her just a few quick pumps later.

Breathless and sore from bending over her on the table, he slowly pulls his quickly softening cock out of her and opts to lean against the table, next to where she still lays.

She lets out a loud, contented sigh before turning her head to the side to look at him.

A smile breaks out on his face as he wearily asks, “So, how was Dorne?”

Her returning smile is larger. “Hot,” she laughs out.

“Really?” he jokes, “I never would have guessed.”

“It was great Gendry,” she settles on, a sparkle in her eyes. “I paid orphans of the Greenblood to transport me some of the way down the river in their colorful poleboats. They live so freely there, out on the river, dancing and singing.” She hesitates for a minute before continuing. “I also met with the Prince of Dorne in Sunspear at Bran’s request. It was tense at first. I half suspected he was trying to kill me with the food, all of it is so hot and spicy. But by the end of the visit I think we had come to an understanding.”

“Your brother says you’re to give me advice on him,” he throws out, casually.

“Bran wrote to you?” she asks, surprised.

“Aye. He said you were on your way back and that what you had learned might help me in dealing with the Marcher lords.”

She appears to be thinking on what he’s said for a moment before propping herself up on an elbow. He knows she’s implicitly agreed to help when she changes the subject. “Do you want to see my new horse?”

“You have a new horse? Here?”

“Yes, in the stables. Where else would I put my new sand steed?” she asks around a smile. _Had things gone so well with the Prince of Dorne that she’d talked him into giving her a horse?_ Before he can voice the thought, a crack of thunder pierces his ears, and he’s reminded of the storm that’s still raging around them.

“Perhaps when the storm is over.”

“Right, the storm,” she mutters softly. She takes a quick glance up and down his body, reminding him that he’s been very naked this whole conversation. She then looks down at herself, fisting her hands in the tunic that they hadn’t gotten around to taking off her earlier and lifts it up and over her head in one quick motion.

“I think we can keep busy until then,” she says with a feral grin.

He’s hoping his first storm will be a long one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written smut before and figured I would test out the waters, hopefully it wasn't too bad!  
> Also, I feel like I make Gendry and Arya smile way too much but they deserve to be happy and playful with each other, okay?


End file.
